Seven Swords, Seven Lords
by Wildhorses1492
Summary: "The seven swords they carried were magical, said to protect the owner. They fought as knights of Narnia, but were treated as outlaws by your people. They took and they gave, they made peace and they fanned the flames of hate." Seven Telmarine Lords have decided to flee. This is what they learn on a dark night in the Haunted Forest.


**Seven Swords &amp; Seven Lords**

**~o0o~**

The men pushed their animals harder. The dark wood seemed to bend down to them, as if wanting to grab them off the backs of their mounts and hold them forever in the haunted forest. This was a place they never dared travel because of the superstition that ghosts lived on here. And why not believe these myths when things of inexplicable reason happened at odd hours of the night?

Like the tale of the white wolf. There was no such thing, unless you believed the old Narnian stories. A white wolf, larger than possible, was said to be seen on moonless nights prowling the edge of the woods– keeping the last sacred resting place of his people safe from intruders such as the Telmarines. He would come forward and ask – _speak_ – to inquire if they 'are Narnian or thief.' If they are anything but Narnian, the tale goes that the travelers never return.

But tonight, these seven men had to think of the stories as nightmares or tales told little children to make them behave. But these fairytales told them had come with them throughout their lives, and it was trying to cast them aside as they went galloping through the forest. They were running for their lives, hoping to gain the shore and find some way to cross the sea to a place where Lord Miraz couldn't reach them and bring to them the same fate as their beloved king: Death.

Suddenly the group leader's mount pulled up, and the man was nearly thrown. He beat the horse with the reins, kicked it, cursed it, but the animal refused to move further, whickering nervously, his sides heaving; the horse would not move for the man. He was a beast of burden and had been trained to follow his master, but there are some things even a horse knows go too far.

"You worthless animal!" the man shouted in rage.

"Restimar, peace, can you not see he is worn through?" One of his companions pleaded softly for the animal.

"Bern, how did you become a lord? You're too young and too weak-hearted," Restimar replied harshly, raking his spurs across the horse's flanks yet again. He was not normally a rude man, but he had a great rage, and when his anger was kindled, he often forgot who he'd directed it at.

Soon all the men were arguing about what to do, the animal, the treatment of the animal, and how they were better than this, so why were they doing it?

The men were so busy quarreling and so focused on fleeing, that they failed to remain alert to their surroundings. It was Argoz who noticed the horses were all staring off into the darkened woods, flicking their ears to pick up sounds. He peered hard into the undergrowth; wishing clouds weren't covering the full moon. The Lord shifted back in his saddle nervously when he saw something move.

He hauled back on the reins as his mount proceeded to walk in that direction. The beast whinnied eagerly, stepping up almost into a canter. Argoz heard his companions crying out as well and knew that their mounts must be following a similar pattern. It wasn't long until they saw what their horses had only moments ago been able to hear and smell.

"_Vino acum frumusetile mele sosit momentul de a juca aici, în grădina mea de umbre Totul va fi bine, cu toate că cei patru s-au mutat pe și șapte au plecat, rămâne în grădina mea de umbre. Un loc întunecat, de asemenea adevărat, dar este acasă, știu nici rușine când te întreb ce mai ai_?"

The strange female voice drifted down to them through the woods, along with the smell of fire-smoke and roasted grain. The horses stopped at the edge of a curiously cleared-out place in the woods. It was not a clearing, per se, in the usual sense of the word – for the trees still grew thick over it – but it was as if someone had crafted the branches to be the roof with the thick Narnian grass as a floor.

An old grandmother sat next to a fire burning in the middle of the glen, several pots hanging down into the flames so as to heat whatever meal was inside them. Her hair was long and white as snow. Framing her aged and weathered face were several clinking strands strung with small glittering beads. And whatever she sung must have been in a language long departed from the lesson books, for the lords had not heard it spoken before.

One of the most startling things, however, was not the old grandmother, but what they at first mistook for a large white sack, until the sack stood on fur legs and stretched. It was a wolf– a huge white wolf. It turned its head to stare at them with orange eyes; eyes nearly the same color as the flames in the campfire.

"Ah, I thought I felt something in the trees; come, come weary travelers, and eat. It has been ready ever since I felt the movement." The men were taken by surprise when the woman addressed them so plainly.

"Don't be shy; come." She moved forward and grabbed a horse by the bridle, leading it closer. The other mounts followed, as if bewitched by the old grandmother.

"How can we trust you?" Octesian queried sharply as they cautiously dismounted, hands moving uneasily to their hilts.

"I care not who you are, young pirate. I only wish for you to eat well; you look as if you had a long travel, and have longer still to go."

"We are not _pirates_!" Mavramorn retorted indignantly.

"Oh, but you are. For you have stolen Narnia from the rightful heirs to the throne and have put yourselves as her lords and masters. A pirate steals, and so do you. A man does not have to sail upon the ocean to be a thief," she replied firmly, leaving no room for argument.

The men sat down and ate guardedly, but after a time they relaxed somewhat. The wolf was silent, except for an occasional whine or growl. After a good deal of time had passed they felt that they must be on their way again.

"You have not asked my price," the grandmother called as they stood and made their way towards their mounts.

Restimar walked back, his mood becoming foul yet again. "What is your price, you greedy Narnian liar?" he demanded harshly.

"That you listen to Ibri, the Teller of Tales, as she tells you of Old Narnia," the grandmother replied calmly.

"Very well, if that is the price; but where is this 'Ibri' of whom you speak?" Restimar questioned, looking pointedly around the glen.

"I am she. The last human Narnian still left. I bear no magic blood– I am mortal. And soon I shall join my ancestors in Aslan's Country." Ibri bowed her white head as she spoke, but the gleam in her eyes when she looked up once again told the Lord that she didn't care about death; it was nothing to her.

"Come, young pirates, and listen, for this will be something to tell your children." The woman motioned with her hands for them to gather round her.

"Long ago, when this land had just been overtaken by your people, there rose seven guardians; protectors of Narnia – three women and four men – to do Aslan's bidding. They each had a talent all their own; Gifts from Aslan. These protectors are not well known, for the tasks they did are small; mostly they put Old Narnia at peace until such a time as the Four return, bringing with them freedom and a free Narnia!" Ibri smiled as if in joy at the thought.

"The Four are the greatest rulers of Narnia; her Deliverers. There will never be others like them. I hope someday they return, for Narnia cannot bear up under your rule. But I must come back to the Seven. They were wise, merciful, just, forgiving, faithful, kind, righteous, and they died for Aslan one at a time, but they were not afraid.

"The seven swords they carried were magical, said to protect the owner. I do not know if there is any truth to this, but it seems in keeping with what Aslan would do. They fought as knights of Narnia, but were treated as outlaws by your people. They took and they gave; they made peace and they fanned the flames of hate.

"They were nigh unstoppable, excluding the fact that they were mortal. And mortality kills. I'm sure you will remember the death of Jaddai, the last Guardian? It was hundreds of years ago, but it would be in your history and law books. The witch who was burned at the stake," she paused and looked around at the circle of men. They nodded; they had read of the demonic woman who called upon a lion in the sky.

"Yes, you burned her. For believing in Aslan instead of your gods– gods made of wood and stone," Ibri scoffed, a frown coming over her face as she thought of the memory.

"You may go, my tale is finished. Korah will not harm you. He will watch you to make sure you are safe while in these woods. Strange ghosts roam at night, people say; Narnian soldiers and Narnian subjects, unable to rest because of what you have done. Now go! I grow tired of teaching Telmarines." Ibri waved her hands harshly in the direction of their horses.

The men looked at one another as they mounted; this was the strangest thing that had ever happened to them in their lives. They spurred their horses into a trot, wondering why the beasts were now so eager to go when before nothing would've turned them to the right or left. Behind them, Korah the wolf howled his lonely tune.

"Did you not hear of those seven swords she talked of?" Revilian called to his friends.

"Yes, they were said to be magical; for protection to the owner," Rhoop spoke up excitedly.

"It would be something to have a weapon like that as means of protection on lonely nights such as these, when we have not a friend in the world," Argoz remarked thoughtfully.

"Surely no one would refuse men such as us protection of that sort in this hour of need?" Mavramorn wondered aloud.

"Let's go to the ruins; we will find these mythical blades, if just to see them," Restimar vowed.

In answer to his declaration was a hearty agreement from his companions, and as it was uttered the seven men turned their mounts off to the right, toward the ruins of the Narnian castle.

**~o0o~**

They arrived at the edge of the forest and stared across at the ruins looming up out of the nighttime mists. The water whispered gently to the shore, telling of stories ending in death for the adventurer. The wind shushed through the boughs, as if wailing for them to run– to turn back. But still they persisted.

"How can we cross this?" Octesian asked sharply, looking to his friends.

"I do not know," Restimar returned.

Bern, the youngest lord, walked some distance away, staring up at what was once the most glorious castle in all of Narnia. It was rumored that four thrones, made of stone and built into the castle, were in the Great Hall. He wished that he could see them; he liked to believe the Narnian tales more than his friends. Bern leaned against a large stone pillar; probably what was left of a bridge or some-such thing, he surmised.

The young lord cried out in shock when the solid wall he had been leaning against fell inward, revolving as if on pivots. He friends came running when they heard his cry. They stared into a dark doorway carefully constructed into the pillar ages before their time.

"Bern! Bern, young friend, where have you gone?" Revilian called out.

"I'm here, but I can't see to find the stairs back up to you. If only there was light!" Almost as soon as he uttered the last word, the room was aglow. It revealed that he had fallen on a landing, and that there were stairs above and below him. Torches were fitted into the marble wall brackets.

It was not a tunnel made of earth in a haphazardly fashion, but fine, white marble which had been crafted into the passage walls– painted carvings of Narnia brushed upon them. They were the most detailed works of art the seven lords had ever seen, and nothing like Telmarine work.

The men and women in them were forever immortalized by their loving subjects.

There was a beautiful carving of four figures standing in front of four thrones – two men and two women – with scores of mythical and mortal Narnians alike carved in front of them. There were battles and peace times, all with these four men and women solemnly or joyously presiding: a dark haired king, and a blonde, a brunette haired queen, and a raven haired.

Then came the pictures which had Telmarines clearly etched into them; they were not something for these seven men to take pride in, for they told a bitter tale.

The first showed two young people, a man and a woman. They were in battle, the dead lying around them. The crowns they wore were simple, but proclaimed their Narnian heritage and royalty. Then the carvings showed how, little by little, they lost the wars, and finally, their deaths followed.

There also was a young man on a war stallion, with several hundred cavalry troops parading behind him. A field of defeated cavalry lay before them, and Bern could very nearly swear that the figure on the horse was smiling, but it also could have been the unease coursing through his nerves causing him to see that which did not truly exist. The captain's gruesome death in battle was not long in coming.

The men and women who followed were strange, and yet a regal bearing was felt when you stared at their figures carved into the stone. Each held a sword before them, as if it was a mark of their ethereal powers. The lords all stopped when three darkened doorways showed at the end of the hall. They entered the one directly before them.

With a hiss, the room was lit as well. The seven men walked into it and were met with an aweing sight. The walls were inlaid with gold and priceless gems. Seven life-sized statues stared down unseeingly at them from atop foot-high marble pedestals. The only thing that wasn't carved from marble was the weapon each statue held in front of them– the point just touching the pedestals. The steel blades were as clean as if they'd been recently polished.

Three women…

Four men…

Guardians of Narnia…

Behind every statue was a metal gate, closing off a small room. Each gate was beautifully wrought. The seven lords looked at one another uneasily when they realized that this was not just a tribute to these dead Narnians, it was their tomb.

"Enough of us all acting like superstitious old women," Lord Restimar muttered angrily. He strode over to the first statue on the left, a woman's figure. Her statue had been painted to look as if she were real, all her details done to perfection. Her outfit was a dark pink, her skin as brown as the earth, and her eyes had been painted as blue as the northern sky on a clear day.

Restimar grabbed the sword in the statue's cold hands and pulled it down and out. It slid easily through the carved marble the same way it had been placed there. A strange tingling sensation pulsed up through his hands and into his arms, but it passed and he hurriedly dismissed it.

The rest of the lords moved forward, uneasy still about what they were doing. Bern stopped in front of a young man in the dark forest greens and browns of a yeoman or outlaw; his skin lightly tanned, his hair a sandy color, and his eyes a warm brown. The Lord tried to remember that they weren't live beings, merely statues, but it was hard with the life-likeness painted into them.

Lord Mavramorn stepped up to a young man with curly black hair, olive skin, and green eyes – perhaps of Calormene descent? – An indigo-colored shirt and dark breeches tucked into his tall black boots.

Lord Rhoop came to another woman, her hair blonde in color, eyes gold, and her dress a lilac purple. He stared up at her, momentarily in awe of the unusual beauty the Narnian possessed. Had all human Narnians been this striking? Why did the Telmarine people lack such refined features and dignified gazes?

Lord Revilian approached another statue of a young man bearing orange hair and blue eyes, dressed in saffron colors. The bright eyes seemed merry, as if he was a man with a keen mind and a ready wit. The frivolous and bright colors of his clothing hinted at a telling occupation; a court jester, perhaps?

Lord Octesian stopped in front of a young woman in clothed black, her hair a dark reddish-black; her eyes seeming a fiery red. This he knew to be Jaddai, the woman branded a witch for her beliefs.

Lord Argoz stared up at a young man with black eyes and pale skin and hair the color of ebony. His clothes were a silver color; harshly striking compared to his dark features and pale skin. He reached for the sword in the statue's hands; as he did so, he noticed something inscribed into the blade.

He removed the weapon and stared at the unfamiliar writing. But slowly he began to understand it. _Ivvah_. He looked up at the statue and whispered the name. Ivvah, it was the guardian's name. He was certain of it.

"Their names are written on the blades; should we really take them? Why not let the spirits of these men and women rest in peace?" he queried uneasily.

"You are just as weak as Bern!" Restimar scoffed. But still he checked his blade for a name, and like Argoz, he saw and understood. The unusual name 'Shebna' was etched upon his.

From left to right, the names read as these on the flats of the fine broadswords: Shebna, Todd, Othniel, Hena, Rezef, Jaddai, and Ivvah. The seven Guardians of Narnia.

Like Restimar, the lords each felt a strange tingling pass through them. The men chalked it up to nerves, but in truth it was the magic crafted into the blades coursing through them, looking for the magic that was in the blood of their rightful owners; magic that matched the blade's power.

However, they were simple commoners descended from pirates, there was no magic found in them. And so their journeys with the swords would begin. They wished to have swords that were supposedly protective, but they were protective only to those who knew how to use the magic inside them. To any other, they would be a curse. As they turned to go, it seemed as if the whole room filled with a mournful sigh which chilled each man indescribably.

They stopped to look into another room on the right, but the sight before them was just as unsettling. These walls, too, were inlaid with priceless treasures. Again life-size statues stared back at them. A blonde woman, in full battle regalia, with a real bow and quiver in her hands, a real dagger and shortsword at her side – golden circlet crowning her head – stared blankly at the entrance, guarding her tomb for all time.

Next to her was a statue of a dark-blonde haired young man, sword at his side and a golden crown gracing his head too. His sightless blue eyes seemed to stare down at them with reproach. He wore blue and silver, bright colors no Telmarine monarch would ever wear; a golden knight's chain round his neck bore the head of a roaring lion.

Next to him was a dark haired young man, his brown eyes held laughter captured excellently by the artist. As the others had, he bore a real broadsword at his side. But he was dressed as a high-ranking officer in the cavalry. It was obvious that he was not royalty, but was still worthy of being honored just as highly.

Bern recognized them as being the same figures on the carvings in the hall. The dark haired young man was the leader of the Narnian cavalry staring out from the carvings with a grim smile of victory at the dead etched before him on a long-forgotten battle field. The man and the woman had been the last of the rightful heirs to the throne, the last of the pure-blooded Narnian kings and queens.

The walls behind them were painted murals, showing their lives from beginning to end. Bern winced; their deaths were far more graphic in these paintings than in the carvings.

The lords had never fought in battles; had never been subjected to the horrors of war and the loss of the battlefield. To see recorded for all time in unyielding stone such deaths as impalement on horseback, stabbing, and laceration, was enough to sicken the men. It was not something one wanted to think about, having very nearly escaped an uncertain death not many hours before.

"Are we really the right head of this country? Did our dead friend's forbearer become the king because these people were barbaric? Or have we just stolen their thrones because their land was blessed by this Aslan, this lion of the sky, and we wanted it?" Bern whispered harshly, shock at the scenes garishly painted before them overwhelming him.

"They fought and they died for this country, which says something about this place. Perhaps Ibri was right; we are the pirates and thieves, and they – the Narnians – are the true possessors of this land," Argoz added, staring in shock at the paintings of the deaths of the last monarchs and their supporters.

"Come, let us depart. This is not something for us. We have found what we sought," Restimar said quietly, turning to go. They did not bother looking into the last room, knowing it most likely held similar statues of the "Great Four, Deliverers of Narnia" as Ibri had called them to be. No Telmarine could ever be held in such a high regard, they each thought bitterly; not by any Narnians.

They quickly mounted the stairs and left, the wall silently closing behind them. The lords decided to go back to Miraz, since they thought that these weapons might keep them safe. As they galloped out of the forest, something caused them to stop and turn to look back. The sight was frightening. Specters flitted in and out among the trees. Though they never spoke of it, each man was convinced in his own mind that the spirits of the seven Guardians watched them flee the forest. As they spurred their horses on again, a lonely wolf's cry rang out; reminding them of everything they had learnt and done that night.

**~o0o~**

Two weeks back at the castle, Lord Miraz asked them if they might wish to explore the Eastern Ocean and see what went on in the Lone Islands; their travels would be paid for, he assured them. So they took the offer, thinking nothing of it. It was a way to escape death from his hand, after all. But this journey was to be only the beginning of their destruction.

* * *

**A/N: **

**I originally published this story January 29, 2015, trying to explain some head-canon I had thought up, but now realize I have done a rather poor undertaking of the task. It was not so carefully written as I now know it should have been. But, my writing has improved since I first published this. So, I've begun rewriting it and editing it. I have removed the chapters and have republished this first chapter; the rest shall follow. **

**As everyone knows on FFN, I own nothing besides the idea. If I owned anything, I believe I would not be having to go over this again; besides, Jack's writing sounds incredibly different from mine. **

**Now, to start off, the King, the Queen, and the Narnian cavalry officer are OCs for my Narnia AU the Star Cycle; this does not mean you need abandon this story because it connects to that series. Yes, it is in the same AU, but this story is individual and can be read completely as a standalone. It would, actually, be easier to read the Cycle if you read this along with it, believe it or not. Especially the 2nd book. **

**The language Ibri the Teller of Tales was singing in was Romanian, but for this AU of mine -and all my other Narnian stories- I pretend that it's the Narnian language. If this is confusing, you can go read more in my "_Regarding Countries and Fantasy Worlds_". **

**Translation**** of Ibri's words: **

"Come now my beauties the time has arrived  
To stay here in my garden of shadows.  
Everything will be well,  
Although The Four have moved on and The Seven have gone.  
Stay in my garden of shadows,  
A dark place true, but it is home  
Know no offence when I ask; what ghosts have you?"

**Generally meaningless babble with only some sense to it. What can I say? My characters are so weird and I really can't control how they want to behave at times! All of the names I used for the OCs are from the Bible, including all of the Guardian's names- excluding Todd's.**

**In the original chapter I listed the reasons why I decided to write this story, but now I'll only list them in the following chapter if any of you are curious to know. But, besides that, please review and tell me if you enjoyed this or not, **

**WH**


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